Kipeppery's Custom Fic....."Poison Ivy"
by Gethsemane
Summary: What really happened while Brock was working with Professor Ivy?


Poison Ivy 

by   
Gethsemane 

**DISCLAIMER and Author Note:**

**Gosh, but it's been a while, hasn't it? To any one who remembers these custom fics...I plan on finishing up the requests this week and moving on over to Harry Potter country. I've been out so long due to being extremely busy trying to get my Masters Degree. Still a semester to go, but the draw is a bit to strong at this time.**

**This is a custom made fic for Kipeppery, who wrote: "Hm, I want to write a 'What happened to Brock on Ivy's island' story! *thinks* Oh, I know! Those three little girls that hang around Prof. Ivy somehow realize that they are the reincarnations of the Grimm Brothers! Now I don't know if this would be humor, fantasy, action\adventure or a proof-of-lunacy story, so just feel free to do anything with it..."**

**I am doing this by request, but not for financial gain. I own lots of Pokemon stuff, just not the name or the idea. Grad student = poor, legal action not necessary, Pokemon has a good chunk of my money already anyhow...**   
  
  


I wake up stiff and sore. My eyes open, not registering my surroundings at first. Shit, I'm in the basement...I must have fallen asleep last night during the "party". I'm sure that pissed Pamela off. It explains why I am still chained to the wall. I'm sure I'll be here all day. I hate to think what my punishment will be... 

God, my back hurts. My hands are cold. I flex them, trying to get the blood circulating again. At least she had been in a good enough mood last night to use the furry garifig print manacles. I still can't get out of them though. 

How did I get myself into this mess? Damn, I know the answer to that...hormones. Well, there is no greater cure for teenage horndogism than a psychotic nymphomaniac. I'll be the first to admit that Pamela Ivy is a hottie. The first time I saw her in a bathing suit I thought my pants were going to rip. On top of that, the woman needed me. Her house was a wreck. I jumped at the chance to stay. Pushing Ash and Misty off with the happy idea that I was enhancing my studies in breeding. Well, that was my plan, just not pokemon breeding...In the back of my mind, I had the story worked out. I'd take care of the house...she'd be grateful and take care of me...quid pro quo. Hello Mrs. Robinson and all that, I would seduce her if it killed me. 

I pulled out all the stops. I decided that the "professing my undying love" approach was not the way to go. That tended to send them away more than anything. I started with the flirtatious remarks and double entendres. Her reactions were always cool and indifferent. I took to washing the porch or the boat in only my tight cutoff jeans, making sure to get really wet as she walked by. No reaction to this either. I considered that she might be gay. I even hinted as much to her assistants, those damn wyrd sister wannabes. Of course, _they _hung all over me, chattering madly and spewing town gossip with all the vileness and gore they could muster, as if they were the Grimm Brothers reincarnated...Anyway, they just looked at each other knowingly and laughed at me. 

I tried the romantic intellectual approach, spouting philosophy and poetry under the stars, trying to engage her in discussions, get into her pants via her mind. Nothing I tried ever worked. She went out Fridays and Saturdays to meet with her colleagues and discuss her findings and all of that. She would come in around two and raid the refrigerator. I decided to make my move on one of those Fridays. After she left, I cleaned the place up and shooed the terrible trio off to bed. I fixed some of the more creative sushi and sashimi dishes. The kind that tends to get people a little horny. (I have a great little cookbook of stimulating recipes.) I picked a nice year from her wine collection as a final touch. I lit a few candles and waited. 

She stumbled in the door right on time, giggling as she struggled to take her shoes off without falling over. I was a little disappointed that she'd been drinking, but at that point all I really cared about was getting rid off the hard on that I'd had since I moved into the damn place. I told my chivalric feelings to go to hell and rushed to catch her as she lost her struggle with both her shoe and gravity. 

When I caught her she slid her arms around my neck and relaxed into my arms. 

"You okay there, Professor?" She giggled at me and tried to wiggle out of my grasp. 

"I'm fine, Brock. Just a little tipsy. Thanks for catching me though," She let go of me and started toward the kitchen. "God, I'm starved." She stopped at the dining room table and looked at me. 

"What's this?" 

"I thought you might enjoy a past-midnight snack." She smiled and knelt down at the table. 

"Mmm," she said, turning my stomach to butter. "All of my favorites. But I'm really tired." My hopes, and my erection, fell at this point. 

"I'm afraid that you shall have to feed me." Hello stiffy, glad to have you back. I slid to my knees behind her and reached around her for her chopsticks. She beat me to the chopsticks and dropped them to the floor. 

"Oops. Silly me." So, that was how she wanted to play. I picked up a dragon roll and held it to her lips. She took it from my fingers, bathing my index finger with her warm tongue. I moved closer to her so that she could feel my hardness against the small of her back. To my extreme pleasure, she leaned into it. 

I fed her the rest of her meal, and she cleaned my fingers more intensely after each piece, until finally she was sucking my fingers with a passion. 

"Oh," she sighed, "the food is all gone. I suppose it's time for dessert." I reached for the wine, and she reached for my zipper. The wine was left forgotten on the table. 

Sixteen years of sexual frustration was sucked out of me that night, literally. We did things that I never dreamed the human body was capable of. After three hours I passed out, only to be awakened around 7 o'clock by a very nice blow-job. 

I slept in her room from that night on. I was, of course, in love. I mean, hey, you're looking at a guy that fell in love with every female he ever came across. Now I had this woman who seemed to delight in wrapping her lips or her legs around me as much as she could within a 24 hour period...I was in heaven. 

She continued to go out on the weekends, and though I'd asked her a few times to stay home or take me with her, to no avail, I thought nothing of it. Then one night she comes tripping in the door with a blonde bohunk named Tom. She was laughing and rubbing his crotch. 

"Excuse me, what the hell is this?" I yelled at them. 

"This is Tom, and he was nice enough to show me home," Pamela giggled, "now he is going home." 

"Aw, c'mon baby," Tom drawled, grabbing her chest. "I could go another round. Send the kid to bed and let's get it on." I was about to lunge at the guy, when Pam spoke in a very strict tone. 

"You forget yourself, Tom. Who is in charge here?" Tom let go of her and hung his head. 

"You are. I apologize mistress." 

"You will go and for your punishment you will not see me for one month." Tom was visually upset, but said nothing. "Now go home." 

After Tom left, I grabbed Pamela. 

"What the hell is this....what the hell was that?" 

"Let go of me, Brock, now," she said. I did, but I was still yelling. 

"How could you do that. I. I..." 

"Brock, I had a life before I started fucking you. You cannot expect me to give it up. Your a good kid and all, but I have other engagements." She then reached into my chest, pulled out my heart and stomped it flat into the floor...well, that's what it felt like at least. 

"What...what about....aren't I good enough for you?" I blurted out, ashamed and crumbling under the weight of my world falling down on top of me. 

"No, frankly, Brock, you are a good fuck, but my interests run darker that what you are ready for." 

"What are you talking about? I can handle anything you throw at me!" I yelled. I did not really know what she was talking about, but I was desperate not to lose her. She looked at me and smiled. 

"Oh really. Well, we'll see about that, but not tonight. Come to bed, Brock." I spent hours teasing her with my tongue, and then I made love to her slowly, holding out for an excruciating long time before calling her name and collapsing over her. I held her and kissed her neck. 

"See," I whispered, "I can make you happy." 

"Oh, Brock," she said coldly, "you really have no clue. Go to sleep." She rolled away from me then. I curled up on the edge of the bed and tried not to bawl like a baby. 

The next day Pam took me to her basement. It looked like a medieval dungeon, full of chains, whips, manacles, and various other items made of leather or metal or both.   
She explained some of her games and fetishes to me. She was a dominatrix. I took in everything she told me, bobbing my head in agreement and telling her that I had dreamed of doing those things even though I was scared as shit and downright disgusted by some of it. 

So, from then on out, I was her whipping boy. I play along, but I don't really like it. She hurts me a lot. She asks me if I trust her, and I tell her I do, but I'm not sure if I do. She still goes out on the weekends, but there isn't anything I can do about it. What I mistook for drunkenness turned out to be stoned. She likes to get high when she plays her games. I hate it. I know she did it before we became involved, but I can't help thinking she does it so much to escape from me. I am allergic to oddish leaves, so her attempts to get me stoned result in vomiting and rashes, which pisses her off all the more 

Sometimes I just want to leave, but I can't. I know that would make her very angry, and she is a powerful person in the pokemon research world. My career would be over before it started. If I ever do get out of here, I'm not going to lust after anyone else for a long time, even if that means getting Misty to knock me over the head and drag me away every time we come across a pretty girl. 

All I want, all I've ever wanted, is to be loved. 

I hope to God this isn't what love is. 

It isn't, is it?   


**A.N. Sorry to all you BDSM fans out there, no offense. Brock doesn't seem the type to really like it, though. This is a bit darker and a bit nastier that what I usually write. I'm easing into nc-17, but I'm not there yet.**   
  
  
  



End file.
